


Wonders

by RogueBelle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Knifeplay, Rating: NC17, Sex, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueBelle/pseuds/RogueBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jefferson makes a second attempt at getting Emma to believe in his story, the curse, and herself. When the mounting tension between them finally becomes too powerful to ignore, he finds a darkly seductive way to prove to her that she can trust him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wonders

**Author's Note:**

> A) Because these two were 100% walking kinkbait and I found that delectably irresistible.  
> B) Because I wanted to get it out before 1x21 happens and the canon changes. ;)

"I shouldn't trust you."

"Probably not," Jefferson admits, his shoulders twitching in a slight shrug. "But—" He points a finger at her, and she works hard not to flinch; it's too similar to how he had gestured with the gun, so casual yet so direct at the same time. "I will not lie to you. I will _never_ lie to you."

"Yeah right," Emma snaps, reflexively; everyone lies, she knows that, has always known that. "You were playing me false from the second we met. Or does your ankle habitually miraculously heal itself from sprains?"

But his expression is exasperated, not defensive. "A mild deception. You _did_ run me off the road, after all. But I have no need of any such ruse now. What reason would I have to lie?" He leans over the desk towards her, that insistent invasion of her space; she can smell his cologne, earthy and slightly spiced and entirely too appealing. "You already know everything. What could I possibly have left to lie about?"

Emma refuses to lean back, refuses to show him that his nearness is affecting her. Her eyes flick coolly, appraisingly, over him. He does have something of a point, loathe though she is to admit it. Emma purses her lips briefly before continuing. "You did still drug me. And hold my friend hostage so I would... make a hat." It still sounds crazy, like something that couldn't possibly be real or have happened to her. A hat, of all things. Ludicrous.

"A regrettable necessity, but would you have _listened_ otherwise?" That slow, lazy smile crawls over his face, and he gives his head a little shake. "Emma, Emma, Emma, so skeptical, so focused on _here_ and _now_ and _is_ , not on _might-be_." He drops his head close to hers, words biting out like bullets. "I had. To get. Your attention. And I believe it worked. So, if we're going to talk about trust, Emma—" And then he pulls back, swiftly, and Emma is ashamed to realise she sways slightly at his sudden absence. The air seems to grow cooler as he turns his back on her, circling idly. "—Then we really ought to talk about you. _You_ , after all, have lied to me. With quite an instinct for cruelty, I might add."

She can't see his face now, but she remembers it as it was that night, raw with sorrow and need, tears standing in his eyes from the pain, from the relief of finally being believed. For a moment, she almost feels bad; but then again, he _had_ been holding her and her best friend hostage – which rather kills her sympathy.

"The thing is, though," Jefferson went on, pivoting back to face her, "for a moment, you weren't lying. Maybe it was only for a second, but it was enough. When you saw my scar, it opened up just enough of a chink in that practical armour of yours." His lips twitch, somewhere between annoyance and amusement. "And that is what got it to work. So if just that one little flicker of allowance could make the hat work, even briefly—" Jefferson's shoulders drop, and there it is again, that rawness, that yearning, that utter lack of guile, his face so open, so earnest that it hurts. "Oh, Emma. Imagine what could happen – what _will_ happen – if you _really_ believe."

But Emma doesn't want that; of all the things she doesn't want, that might just rank the highest. That's too much pressure, too much riding on her, and especially too much riding on her ability to trust in some ludicrous fantasy. "Enough. You need to go." She starts to rise, intending to escort him out, but in less time than it takes her to blink, he moves around the table and places a hand heavily on her shoulder, halting her momentum and thrusting her back down into her seat. It's more than a little unnerving that Jefferson can shift so rapidly between casual languor, frenetic energy, and incredibly focused speed; it makes him hard to prepare for, hard to anticipate. Emma's instincts play her false where he's concerned, and that makes him dangerous. _'You knew that. So why did you let him in?'_

His fingers dig slightly into her shoulder. "What do I have to do to convince you?" he says, more wondering to himself than genuinely asking her. Tight as his grip on her is, there's a desperation behind his eyes. Part of Emma sympathises, wants to give in -- but another part wants nothing to do with it, and that's the part of her that kicks a leg out, hooking it behind his ankles and giving a swift sweep that sends him crashing to the floor. She only makes it two steps away from the chair, though, before his hand grips around her calf. Pressure just below her knee makes her buckle.

She knows better than to catch herself on her hands; she twists, letting her shoulder take the brunt of the fall. He grabs for her arm; she seizes his wrist and gives it a sharp twist. Jefferson winces, but his other hand clamps at the back of her neck. "Let go, and get out of my house," she growls.

"I'm not letting you kick me out, Emma," he rasps, breaking her grip and reversing it in one swift motion. Unabashedly physical and clearly owning no qualms about using his strength against a woman, he lunges, knocking her flat on her back. The expression on his face isn't threatening – at least Emma doesn't think so. It's somewhat hard to tell with him, but he looks more amused and at least a little challenging. She's fought him before, knows what he looks like in a real fight, and this isn't it.

Well, he might be strong, but so is she, and if he wants to challenge her, she'll rise to it. Her free hand connects a solid punch into his shoulder, knocking him off balance. He doesn't release her wrist as he tumbles, though, and it forces her to roll with him. She aims a kick at his ankle, he throws an elbow in return. Neither of them is fighting to hurt – no one's going for throats or eyes or hair – and Emma's not even sure anymore what they're trying to prove, but the exhilaration of it thrums in her veins, thick and heady. Their grappling is more than playful, less than harmful, and the excitement of it sets Emma's heart to racing. His hands are hot against her skin, his determined focus like that of a stalking jungle cat.

Emma finds herself grinning as she gets the better of him, and she can tell from the tension in his arms that he certainly isn't _letting_ her win. She shoves him onto his back, straddling his hips, her hands locking his forearms firmly to the floor. But before she can enjoy the victory, Jefferson gives his hips a solid buck, and it isn't so much the force of it as the surprisingly electric thrill the motion causes that throws off her balance.

When he pins her a second time, hand clamped solidly over her wrists, knees pressing heavily into her slightly splayed thighs, she actually laughs. That slow, sly grin creeps onto his face. He drops his head to hers, so achingly close that she can feel the heat from his skin. For a moment, she thinks he's going to kiss her; for a moment, she wants to beg him to. "Feel better?"

"I do, actually." There was something cathartic in it, Emma had to admit. While life in Storybrooke hasn't exactly been short on excitement, sparring practice isn't often something she gets around this crowd. It's always been an outlet for her, sheer physicality taking over whenever thoughts and emotions were undesirable things to dwell on.

"Now. Are you going to stop trying to kick me out and actually listen to me? Because if not--" A flicker of mischief lights in his eyes. "I can do this all night." He doesn't sound a bit displeased at the prospect.

"Yes. Fine. Get off me."

He eases up off of her, settling back on his haunches and letting her scoot out from under him. She stays on the floor, though, knees bent up in front of her, arms folded on top. Only after a long moment, regarding her thoughtfully, does he speak. "I got it backwards last time. I made an error."

Emma snorts. "I think that's a bit of an understatement."

"I don't mean that part," he says, waving a hand dismissively.

"The part where you drugged me or the part with the hostage-taking?"

"Oh, Emma, I thought we were getting past that, but if we really must keep score, you _did_ hit me with a fairly solid telescope, as I recall."

"You threatened me with a gun!"

"You broke my teacup."

Emma blinks several times, wondering if this is the strangest conversation she's ever had, and not sure how to feel about the fact that, no, compared to others in the past few months, it really isn't. 

"What I meant," Jefferson continues, "is that I erred in asking you to believe a story without giving you _reason_ to believe me. I got it backwards." He drops his eyes to his lap, and his voice grows quieter, calmer, and infinitely sadder. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Emma can almost see the words working to make their way out of his throat. "You have to understand. Holding two versions of reality in your head, alike and so not-alike at the same time -- and there are different _rules_ in different worlds -- waking up each day and having to remember… Things get…" He makes a vague gesture at the side of his head. "Muddled. And it's been a long, long time since I tried to explain any of this to anyone. So I got it backwards. I'd like to remedy that. If you'll give me a chance."

"You're asking a _lot_."

When he lifts his eyes to her, Emma is struck by the difference in them: soft and soulful, not the sharp glints or crinkled mockery. "I do know that." How he can do this, switch from so cavalier to so wrenchingly genuine in a moment, bewilders her.

He holds out a hand to her, open-palmed. Emma starts to reach for it, then flinches. "If I give you this chance – no more... psychotic behaviour." A muscle in his cheek twitches; Emma senses he's trying not to say that's a promise he can't make. "No drugging me. Or anyone else, for that matter!" she hastens to add. "No kidnapping. And no guns."

"I'll do my very best," he replies, then, with that hint of wickedness sparking again, "and I won't even elicit the same promise from you."

It still takes a moment for her to take that step, bridge that gap, but after a long tension, she does, resting her fingers gently in his. Jefferson's shoulders visibly sag with relief. _'Why does he need this so badly?'_ Emma wonders, then the second thought, following hard upon the first, _'How long has it been since anyone gave him the chance?'_

With an unsettling instinct, he brushes the most sensitive spots on her hand – the mound at the base of her palm, the creases on the inside of her knuckles. "I meant what I said. About you being special." Her back goes tense and she opens her mouth to object, but he barrels on before she can. "I know you don't believe that. Don't _want_ to believe it is probably more accurate, and I would guess that's a lot of the problem." He slides closer to her, his knees slipping on either side of one of her feet. "Perhaps you need to believe in yourself before there's room to believe in magic."

There's something magnetic in him, and to Emma, the expression is as literal as it could be – something in him is _drawing_ , has a pull unlike anyone else she's ever met. Just what it is or what it's pulling on, she doesn't know.

"It's in you, though," he continues. "There's a spark. Not everyone has that, even where I'm from. More common there than here, but still…" His thumb brushes over the inside of her wrist, and she feels her pulse leap. "Some people have it, and it _shines_ out of them. Others of us—" A self-deprecating smile pulls at his lips, "had to borrow it where we could get it."

The words are on her lips, to contradict him, to point out that there's clearly _something_ inside of him, even if he is better than half a lunatic. But something holds her back, hesitant to invite whatever that might invite. She settles for offering, "I think most people would call that charisma. Not… magic."

"They're not so different," he replies. "After all – another word for _that_ is charm. And a charm is magic. It's all linked." There it is again, the weird, backwardly sensible logic that seems to pop out of Jefferson at the strangest times. "The thing is—" His other hand darts out, a little too quickly, but she manages not to flinch; he taps high on her sternum, just above her heart. "Either way, it's about what's _in_ you. If you'd been born at home, if you'd had your mother with you – No one ever taught you to see it in yourself or to use it." Jefferson looks so sad, but not with the broken ache that she saw when he talked about the life he claims he lost; this sorrow, she realises, is for her.

Jefferson's hand drifts up to her cheek, and Emma is so lost in thought, so lost in his impossibilities, that she forgets to pull away from him. Somehow, he's edged closer to her, their legs entwined in an almost casual intimacy. His fingers are feather-light against her skin, and it seems impossible to believe this reverent touch comes from the same man who was wrestling her to the ground five minutes ago. "You have such power in you, if you were just willing to harness it. You have magic – and I have knowledge. I could help." Then his hand is at her neck, his fingers lifting back the curtain of blonde hair, his knuckles dragging softly over the sensitive flesh just beneath her ear. "We could work wonders together, Emma. I believe this." And this is not a man to say those things lightly. He might believe incredible things, impossible things, but he believes them absolutely, with a soul-shuddering certainty that frightens her in its resolution. What he believes, he clearly believes with a faith that goes beyond religion -- and what does that mean, if he's decided to believe in her?

His fingers thread back into her hair, twining, _tightening_ , and her breath betrays her, hitching in response to the slight tug, though with fear or with desire, she no longer has any idea. So attuned to nuances, he picks up on the slight change in her breathing, sees her slightly parted lips. Emma curses herself for the reaction; it's a vulnerability exposed, and she feels the rise of panic in her chest. As if he senses that too, Jefferson drops his hand to her shoulder.

"Trust me," he says, his voice low and husky with too many different kinds of needing. "Let me prove that you can."

She nods, almost imperceptibly, and in the next instant, his lips descend to hers, fierce and swift and capturing. Was this what he was building to all along, or is it taking him as much by surprise as it is her? Emma has no idea, and no time to consider it, not with his mouth pressing so insistently against hers. All that humming tension, ever so palpable in him, breaks over her like a flood. He kisses like he's starving, and maybe he has been – at least for this, for touch, for a connection, for the chance. The urgency is intoxicating, and Emma finds her hands falling on his shoulders, drawing him nearer, desperate for more.

For being rather slender-built, Jefferson is remarkably strong – she learnt that the hard way, the night they met, when he slung her across the room like a ragdoll. With one hand at the base of her spine and the other gripping tightly at her upper arm, he hauls her from the floor without breaking the kiss.

He draws back, flicking his eyes down the hallway, where the doors to both her and Mary Margaret's rooms stand open. "I presume," he says, clearly amused, "that yours is the room which looks like a bad day in Kansas?"

Emma doesn't bother looking embarrassed; Mary Margaret might keep most of the house dutifully neat, but Emma's room is usually somewhere just shy of a disaster. "Yeah. It is."

"Then that's where we're going."

Jefferson settles both hands on her hips and advances, forcing her to step backwards towards her room even as he's still kissing her feverishly. She doesn't protest; she should, she's sure, but she doesn't. Whatever fire has been lit between them makes it impossible – and on a purely physical level, she's as eager as he appears to be. Nice girls certainly don't just fall into bed with men they hardly know – but then, nice is one thing no one's ever accused Emma of being, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time in any case.

Still, there's a faint voice at the back of her head prickling for her attention, reminding her who Jefferson is and what he's done and what he's capable of, and that trust only goes so far – but that voice is far harder to hear with Jefferson's hands stroking the curve of her hip, sliding up to her waist, and his teeth nipping lightly at her lower lip.

"This," she says, even as she's tugging at the buttons on his vest, "is insane."

"It isn't," he murmurs against her throat. "Really. I should know." And then he scoops her up and tosses her on the bed. He looks down at her, the hunger evident in his eyes, as he finishes unbuttoning the vest and shrugs it off. Never one to wait patiently at this sort of thing, Emma busies herself removing boots and socks, and by the time she's flung them unceremoniously to the floor, he's done the same and joined her on the bed.

No gentle reverence now, but raw need and rough desire, crashing over them both. One of his hands slips under her shirt and up her back, pressing her closer to him; her fingernails press slightly into his shoulders. She kisses down his jawline and he nuzzles her hair, breathing in the scent of her. But then there's fabric in the way – another finely-tied if eccentric cravat, somewhat mussed from their earlier scuffling. Emma lifts a hand, her fingers starting to pluck at one of the loose tails of the complex knot.

She can feel the muscles in his neck tense, feels him swallow nervously. But trust goes both ways, and with how much he's expecting of her, he'd best be willing to give something in return. And so he nods, lifting his chin slightly to let her pull at the knot. For all its intricacy, the fabric slides loose easily enough, and after a few gentle tugs, the long length of silk comes free. Emma draws it from around his neck.

Emma's fingers drift wonderingly over the scar, the most inexplicable of all Jefferson's oddities – because what could cause a mark like that? She traces the jagged line back towards the hair at the nape of his neck; it definitely goes all the way around. He's waiting, she realises, for some kind of a response. Her hand tightens at the back of his neck, and impulsively, she leans in, pressing a kiss to his throat then, even more recklessly, flicking her tongue out against the raised welt.

A faint hiss escapes him, and Emma jerks back slightly. "Does it hurt?"

"No," he says, with a low laugh. "God, no." Both his hands cup her head, sinking into her hair as he claims her mouth again. He slides the untied cravat she's still holding from between her fingers, the silk slipping, cool and swift, against her skin. And then she feels it looping around her wrist. She tenses, shoulders drawing up and together, but Jefferson's other hand strokes her side, tracing the curve of her ribcage beneath her shirt. "What did I say about trust, Emma?" he breathes.

"I don't like being on this end of the restraints," she bites off, trying to conceal her wariness with pique.

"I know." And there is no pity in his voice, no shame, no remorse. He isn't here to make her comfortable; whatever the point is of this madness they're so recklessly indulging, that isn't it. The only thing the man seems to know to do with a boundary is to push it. He kisses her, long and slow, while the loop of silk tightens, pinching her skin ever-so-slightly. She feels her arm being drawn up, towards the white metal bars of her headboard; he threads the loose end of the cravat around one of them, then brings her other arm up to meet it. Jefferson's fingers are skilled and fast-working; he doesn't even need to look to secure the knots.

When both her hands are bound fast, he nips playfully at the sensitive flesh of her inner arm. He kisses down her throat, across her collarbone, and then his mouth drifts over one high, rounded breast. Her nipples peak under the thin jersey fabric of her tank top, and when his lips close around one, his mouth dampening the fabric, Emma can't help a little moan. 

His hands move with unerring instinct, pushing up under the hem of her shirt. His fingers curl around her side, stroking coaxingly, while his thumbs graze at the underside of her breasts. Emma arches into his touch, into the tantalising pleasure of it.

He catches at the top edge of her shirt with his teeth, tugging it down until her breasts pop free. The shock of his tongue, circling one nipple lazily, is so much more intense without the fabric between them that Emma's hips buck in convulsive response.

Jefferson's touch alternates between maddeningly light and desperately intense, teasing back and forth between the two extremes, and soon it has Emma squirming beneath him, her breath heavy and panting. When his fingers finally drift down to the button of her jeans, she arches up against him, yearning, seeking. Jefferson chuckles. "Impatient."

"Yes. I am," Emma says, her voice raspy. He grins, and goes even slower, defying her lustful undulations. She lifts her hips up, and he smoothly strips her of jeans and underwear together. There's something daring and shameless in it, near-naked and exposed to him when he's still almost fully clothed, but Emma certainly isn't the blushing type.

Jefferson's hands slide, slow but firm, from her ankles up, along the curves of her calves, stroking tenderly at the back of her knees, grazing with agonizing delay along her inner thighs – and then, at the last possible instant, they drift outwards. He leans down, his lips playing along the angled line of her hipbone. Emma draws in a deep breath, her instinct to keep her wits about her warring with the rush of desire overwhelming her.

There's a strange release in it, this surrender of control, something Emma has never permitted herself before, and as Jefferson's hands rove all over her body, seeking out and fully exploiting every sensitive spot on her skin, she closes her eyes and lets her head loll back, giving herself up to the dizzying headiness of it. His lips are soft but his fingers calloused; for all that he looks and lives like a wealthy playboy, those are a workman's hands. The pleasure they elicit is no less for that, and when they slide, at last, between her legs, Emma wants to scream with the relief of it. He looks up at her as he strokes, coaxing out the sweet wetness that proves her desire; her cheeks are hot and flushed, her hair in disarray, and she tugs ineffectually at the bonds. He smiles, finding it all, all of her, astonishingly beautiful. 

His thumb flicks over the aching pearl at her core, and she cries out in gratified surprised. Jefferson feels his pulse quicken; there's something undeniably attractive about making Emma Swan lose that famous control over herself, some strange and unaccustomed power, thoroughly exhilarating. He moves his thumb in small circles, slow at first, then quickening as her chest rises and falls more rapidly. Emma's fingers curl around the bars of her headboard, and she twists and writhes under Jefferson's expert ministrations.

Just when she feels ready to fall to pieces, he withdraws his hand. Emma groans in protest, but then she hears a sudden scrape of metal, and her eyes fly open. Jefferson has a small blade in his hand -- not the enormous scissors he had brandished at her at their first meeting, which might have been comically large if they hadn't also been steel honed to a biting edge. This is smaller, a penknife, or some tool of his apparent trade. "Jefferson--"

He drops a kiss too gently at the corner of her mouth. "What did I say?" he reminds her again. Everything in Emma is rebelling against this, but when he nuzzles her hair, murmuring reassurance, somehow that gets lost in the haze. Her good sense is no longer putting up much of a fight in the battle against the passion overtaking her, and beyond that, she finds herself… curious. She's not sure she could ever admit it out loud, but the idea of what this man – this shocking, stimulating, captivating contradiction of a man– could do with that wicked little blade intrigues her so much that it's setting her pulse afire. So when Jefferson asks, nipping at her ear, "May I?" she nods, biting her lower lip.

He rolls to the side of her, kissing just below the silk binding her wrist. He rotates the blade in his hand, gazing over her speculatively, contemplating his next move. Her chest rises only shallowly, her breath arrested in her lungs, hardly drawing at all. Somehow, that intensifies everything. She can hear her pulse, hammering in her ears, can feel it jumping in her neck and wrists and thighs. All the most tender places on her skin, all those vulnerabilities, seem magnified.

At first, the touch of the metal is so light she barely feels it. The flat of the blade is cool against the flushed skin of her chest, but when he turns it, following the curve of her breast, it prickles. The sensation is strange yet darkly delighting. When he angles the blade nearly to the point, circling around her areola, Emma nearly forgets to breathe at all. Then it dips down, towards her side, drawing whorls over her ribs and stomach. Jefferson's eyes follow the flash of silver as it traces over her skin, never pressing hard enough to raise so much as a scratch, but leaving a faint trail in its wake, white at the pressure point, pink curves and swirls behind.

Something about the sensation of the metal against her skin, so potent with dangerous possibility, makes every sense seem keener, and yet it feels like it removes her from reality as well, taking the moment out of time. The anticipation is nearly too much to bear, and just when Emma thinks she's figured out his patterns of movements, knows where the blade will trace next, he changes the motion, flicking somewhere unexpected. Her whole body hums with the tension of it, finding wondrous delight in this improbable game he's playing with her.

He draws the penknife up to her breast again, and this time, his lips follow the blade, soothing the line of heat it draws up out of her skin. The contrast is electrifying – all the more so when the path traces further down, past her navel, across her hip and down to her thigh. She readily parts her legs to give him greater access. Her pulse thrums so hard she wonders if he can hear it; she feels it pounding more and more each inch that the penknife travels. Her sex aches with need, magnified now with the edge of the knife teasing at her leg, with Jefferson's lips pressing kisses to her inner thigh, his tongue darting out, brief and wicked. When the blade slides, whisper-light, across the crease at the top of her thigh, a breath away from the throbbing core of her, Emma can't take it anymore. "Jefferson—I—"

It doesn't matter that she's unable to get more than that out; he knows what she's asking for, and he's past the point of being able to wait any longer. He snaps the penknife closed and tosses it aside, then pulls at the silk knots binding Emma to the headboard. He only gets one undone before she lunges at him, her hands diving to unbutton his shirt, the silk fabric still trailing off of her other wrist. Feverishly, she wrests him out of his clothes. She rolls him onto his back, blonde hair streaming around both their faces as she leans down to kiss him.

Now that her hands are free, she fully intends to use them, exploring his body as thoroughly as he did hers. There are more scars, marring the plane of his chest, some faint and white, others looking as though not much time has passed since they healed. Emma resolves to ask about them later.

It's his turn now, to twitch and writhe under _her_ , and Emma thrills to see how responsive he is to each little touch. His hands are moving too, though, pressing at back and hips and arms, cupping her breasts, running roughly through her hair. When her hand delves between them, finding his hardened length and curling around it, he gives a primal, guttural groan. His whole body goes tense with pleasure, fingers grasping near-desperately at her. Legs locked firmly on either side of his hips, Emma positions herself just above him. She strokes him again, then slides his tip just between her desire-slickened lips, taunting him with the feeling of how hot and wet he's gotten her.

She stays there, poised at the tip, fully intending to exact some retribution for the way he teased and toyed with her – but Jefferson's having none of it. His hands settle hard on her hips, and he thrusts up at the same moment he pushes her down, filling her in a single, sudden motion. Emma gasps, then hits him in the shoulder. "Bastard," she laughs. "Who's impatient now?"

He lifts her hand to his mouth and bites down on the pad of flesh at the base of her thumb. "Can you blame me?" Emma rolls her hips in response, savoring the feeling of taking him to the hilt, her body tight around him. 

It's been long, so long, for both of them, but these rhythms are ancient and unforgettable. She rocks against him, electric thrills rushing through her as the friction builds; his hands guide and drive her. The room feels like it's a hundred degrees, and Emma couldn't care less; she's not sure she would notice if it was on fire, lost as completely as she is to the consuming passion of the moment.

She feels the pressure building and pushes herself mercilessly towards it, her fingernails scoring new faint lines on Jefferson's chest as she braces herself, panting and sweating and reaching for the white-hot coil throbbing deep inside her. His fingers tangle in her hair, pulling her head back; his teeth latch onto one of her nipples and tug, and she cries out, low and moaning, as ecstasy overtakes her. Jefferson pushes himself up from the bed, twining his arms around her, thrusting powerfully through the spasms, encouraging further ripples to course through her veins.

Before she can spiral down, he flips her onto her back, hitching her legs up under his arms and pounding into her. The rhythm is his to control now, and Emma's body sings to it in response, arching against him, hips moving to meet his with each thrust. Before long, the rise to rapturous delight is building again, and she can tell he's approaching the brink as well, moving faster and with less finesse, more pure strength and power.

Each time he sheathes himself fully within her, Emma tightens around him, the contraction of muscles sending little shivers of pleasure firing through her nerves. The first time she does it, the exquisite sensation knocks Jefferson off of his rhythm for a moment, and he looks at her with something like awe in his expression. But he recovers swiftly, and with greater vigor.

Part of Emma wants to draw it out, to make this impossible moment last, to prolong that moment of tremor just before the floodgates open, so sweet in its torment. But the momentum is inexorable, undeniable, and in another moment, another explosive climax overtakes her, dizzying and powerful, causing her limbs to shake and a drawing a guttural cry out of her throat. The wave of it seems to go on forever, receding only to leave a thick satiety in its wake. Dimly, through her lust-drugged haze, she feels Jefferson go stiff and still above her, and then he collapses, his head dropping to her sweat-damp shoulder.

He's looking at her, his eyes holding appreciation and astonishment, silent thanks for granting him her trust. As their breathing slows, Emma reaches up and lays a hand against his cheek.

Something happens. At first, she doesn't know what – a rush of images floods through her head, flickering and fast and utterly incomprehensible: a twisting hedge maze, acres of thread and fabric, a room with dozens of doors, the glint of an ax flashing through the air, a horse thundering through the dappled light of a sunlit forest, a collection of stuffed animals arranged around a knee-high wooden table. It's all there and gone in a flash, and then she's back to seeing Jefferson's eyes, dark and soulful, searching her.

"What?" she exclaims, drawing back from him. "What the hell just--?" But Jefferson catches her wrist, turning her hand and kissing her palm.

"I told you," he says, sounding calmer than she's ever heard him. "Wonders."

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this work, please check out [my blog](http://cassmorriswrites.com)! I also write original fiction, and my debut novel will be out January 2018.


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